I Returned From the End of the World, and I Don’t Want to Cultivate Immortality Anymore

I once buried the last god with my own hands, and I once watched the final star turn to dust.

To me, time is an hourglass with no markings. Immortality is a curse I cannot escape.

Just when I thought I could finally find peace in the world’s dead silence, I opened my eyes and found myself back billions of years in the past.

Back in the golden age of immortal cultivation, when the mountains were lush and clear and everyone yearned to ascend.

Back to the year I turned sixteen, when I was about to take the entrance trial and become a... cultivator?

Give me a break.

While you’re beating each other half to death over a tattered Dao manual, I’m fretting over which imperial scripture to burn so tonight’s fire will blaze brighter.

When a master alchemist goes wild with joy over a pill formula, it’s just a rough draft I doodled on a whim.

When an unrivaled sword immortal comprehends the supreme sword intent, it’s really just because he heard me say in a dream, “That’s not how you use a sword.”

They call me a mortal because I have no spiritual roots.

But they don’t know that I’ve personally seen the end of every path in the world of immortal cultivation, whether it leads to glory or destruction.

So stop talking to me about cultivating immortality.

I just want to quietly figure out what position would let me die comfortably.

Really, is one tiny little wish like that so hard to grant?!